Blood in the Snow
by Peppery Mints
Summary: One dumb goose, and one last drink. This wasn't the first time Haymitch had seen something precious die. [One-Shot]


_Blood in the Snow_

* * *

Winter was a thief—it slipped into the cracks beneath doors and squirreled down next to any warm place, settling into the bones of the house and making them creak. It didn't help he would always forget to keep the fire going, and when he had to start it up again the whole house would be filled with stinging smoke. It wasn't his fault. Those matches used to be easier to light, back in his day.

The cold always broke him away from the near-constant daze he tried so hard to achieve. If he got too cold, the sips of his wine would wake him up instead of dulling his senses; eventually Haymitch would stumble from one room to the next, looking for a comfortable place to sit and finding none. Damn Capitol-made furniture. He wasn't sure when it became fashionable to make your couches out of steel and cotton padding, but that was the kind he had in his living room. And no matter where he sat, he would always be _cold_. The cold would redden his nose and numb his feet and steal away the sleepy contentment he deserved.

Sometimes she would come over.

He knew she was disgusted by him, and possibly even more disgusted with herself for continuing to bother with him. She would come over and dash around the house, scooping up empty wine bottles as if he would stop drinking if she took away all of his old remnants. The Girl On Fire would sit him down and demand impossible questions of him, like _Did the revolution work?_ and _Why does Peeta stay here? _and _Why can't I stop thinking of Prim?_

Memories didn't get duller with time, he would tell her. And when she started that book, that _stupid_ book, he wanted to slap her. Writing down details of people you've lost doesn't help anything. He used to do that too, used to write down his mother's recipes and how his little sister had hair the color of spun sunlight. But writing doesn't bury anything, it doesn't muffle. It sharpens and sharpens until the memories rest on the brain like tiny razors, digging deeper with every thought. He used to write a lot, back when paper wasn't so thick and those stupid quills weren't so easy to break. Back when his hands didn't shake so badly.

And then every so often he would reach for a bottle and find that it wasn't there. The cupboards would be empty. He would tear the hinges off cabinets and smash them against the walls, so the echoes and noise would fill up his head and flatten any sharp images he still had buried.

But throwing tantrums have a downfall; they have to come to an end. And when that happened, he would pull on an old woolen jacket and go out to see the geese.

Who's idea had it been to give him four pairs of geese? He wasn't sure. Effie, probably. The nosy little trollop clattered in here every so often, entertaining enough with her brittle, glacial smiles that held a world of pain just beneath the expression. The revolution had not been kind to Capitol citizens, least of all to anyone associated with the Games. She would come in and wrinkle her nose and sometimes bring new furniture or books, chattering all the while, pretending that nobody could see how many scars she had tattooed beneath the pounds of makeup.

What was with those Capitol getups? He never saw the appeal in cat whiskers, leopard spots, and neon skin. Back in his day, girls used to clip their hair back in fancy pins when they wanted to look pretty; but then again, he had grown up in the Seam. Looking pretty for a man would entail washing the coal dust off your face.

He had thirteen geese now, the determined little buggers procreating in spite of his neglect. They were practically wild, hissing and glaring at him with beady black eyes until he hauled a bag of corn feed over to the pen, and then all of them were his best friends. Just like Capitol folk.

A little part of him would flower whenever he fed the geese. Something rusted shut would give a little. It was a stupid thing to take pride in, but it was nice to think that he could still lift a fifty pound bag of feed over one shoulder and haul it down the yard. He convinced himself he used to get pretty winded doing that when he was a teenager, too. Besides, the snow was deep.

There was one stupid goose, a young one, still with fluffy gray down on his chest, who wasn't as wild as the others. He would be pecking at corn and then he would pause, look at Haymitch's boot, and tug at the laces. A goose wasn't like a dog, you couldn't scratch it behind the ears and it wouldn't play fetch, but Haymitch liked the little laces tug.

It took a while, into the bitterest part of winter, before that goose would eat corn out of his hand. Thanks to his special treatment, the goose was actually getting fairly plump. It crossed his mind more than once to have it slaughtered and plucked for dinner, but then he would go down and the goose would cock it's head to one side and tug on his laces. And the thought wouldn't enter his head again until the cupboards were empty and there was nothing else safe for him to think about.

It would be just like him, he thought, looking at the goose at his feet, to consider eating possibly the only friend he had. That was what the arena did to you—it turned you and made you into an animal. And if you won, then you would just be a pretty little thing at the end of a jeweled leash for the Capitol to play with. Nothing was _normal_. No victor had ever gone back to his District and led a simple, normal life, the kind of life they envisioned for themselves. Haymitch had made a pact with himself that he wouldn't be a fancy little plaything for the President's lackeys; he was a lazy, messy, mean dog with a frayed leash that nobody wanted to go near. Which suited him fine.

Having the Girl Who Used To Be On Fire around his house all the time reminded him that at one point in time, they might have gotten along. They did _sort_ of get along now, but only in the way that two lumps of clay are pushed down a hill together—forward momentum and other circumstances will mold anyone together, if pushed hard enough.

And if he was being truthful, he would drink more if he knew she was coming over.

He didn't _want_ to be friends with that girl. Or anyone.

He didn't even particularly want to be friends with that stupid goose. But it happened. And now the only person who actually cared whether or not he got up in the morning was a fat bird who was probably more worried about his daily corn quota. Still, the bird had come to _him_. No-one ever wanted to be his friend without some kind of benefit. That bird could have gone on chugging corn on the ground with the rest of the flock, but instead he picked at Haymitch's laces for no conceivable reason.

That was enough, Haymitch decided, to entitle the bird as a friend. The Official Friend of Haymitch Abernathy. Alert the media, sound the Presidential gongs, roll out the red carpet and give that bird a crown, he had managed to do something that no one else had been able to do.

To not have an agenda when confronting Haymitch Abernathy.

* * *

It was the dead of night and Haymitch heard a honking scream. How it had woken him up was beyond him, since there was enough alcohol in his system to drop a moose. But in that moment a knife of clarity cut through the hangover and before he knew what he was doing, he had swung his legs out of bed and jammed his shoes on. Grabbed his jacket and clumsily yanked it over his shoulders and shuffled out into the snow, heading for the pen.

Another gift the arena had given him: to know when something precious had died. He had felt that feeling before, knew it very well, and before he even switched on the kerosene lamp, he knew what he would find.

There were blood and feathers matted onto the snow.

And of course it _had_ to be his bird. Not any of the other temperamental geese, who were huddled in a corner of the pen, silent and fearful. It _had_ to be the one bird who had been the slightest bit friendly. A big old gray fox stared at him for a solid second, the Official Friend of Haymitch Abernathy hanging from his jaws, and then took off silently into the snow.

Haymitch scuffed his boots through the snow, showering the fresh blood with ice, and then turned and went back to the house.

* * *

"Katniss."

She looked up at him, a crease between her brows. He focused on her, looking directly into her eyes, wondering idly what expression she saw on his face.

"Have you seen a big gray fox in the woods?"

"While I'm hunting?" she asked, and then turned away. She picked up another three bottles and tucked them under her arm. "Yeah. I have. Why?"

"He's been getting after my geese. Do me a favor, take care of him for me, would ya, sweetheart?"

"Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Just do me a favor," he said, and settled back in his uncomfortable couch. He used to hunt. Back in the days when the animals weren't so damn quick. And his eyes were a little blurry, come to think of it, which wasn't much good for hunting.

He looked at the bottle in front of him. The amber liquid caught the sunlight and did strange things to it—mellowed it, shaped it, spun it light gold.

What would it be like, to never have another drink? To have this one as his last? He took another sip and savored it, wringing some long-forgotten taste of importance out of the alcohol. If he stopped drinking, those razor sharp memories would crowd his mind again and then he would never sleep, never be able to think or talk because _God_, the weight of those memories was crushing. He took another sip, and thought of the blood in the snow.

Not the _first_ blood in the snow that he had cared about seeing spilled.

He closed his eyes and saw her effortlessly, sprawled on the snow, a halo of blood around her head. Seven years old. Too young for the Reaping. Too young to have a blemish or a mark or any kind of stain on her at all, just a seven year old girl with hair like soft gold and eyes like new bluebells. So young.

Haymitch finished off the bottle and then opened his eyes. "What did you say, sweetheart?"

"I said, you only have one bottle of wine left. The train won't come for another two weeks."

_Blood in the snow_.

"Then I guess that means that's my last drink."

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**Saw Catching Fire recently with some friends, and I haven't been able to get Haymitch out of my head. I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed his character. This is just a quick little one-shot I thought about writing and figured it might as well be published, because hey, why not. I've love to hear what you think, though. **


End file.
